Even When It Isn't
by cheertennis12
Summary: post-ep to "Forgiving Rollins" / As the dust settles, Amanda Rollins leans on some of the people she would least expect for support, and realizes that maybe her friends weren't so wrong after all.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello again, everyone! Thank you for all of the incredible support for Believe, but I felt like it was time to end that and start something new and jump into something a little more canon after last week's awesome episode! This will likely be the same style as always, 3 or 4 chapters depending on where it goes from here.**

**As always, I appreciate you taking the time to leave your thoughts and comments! Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>You just feel numb.<p>

This week has been a whirlwind, a tornado pummeling through your life and leaving it in yet another state of shambles where rebuilding seems daunting, if not impossible.

The low hum of the TV fills your apartment, but you're not really listening as the news anchor discusses some developing crisis in Paris and that missing plane yet again. Instead, you're caught inside your head, listening to the voice, that damn voice that cripples any attempt you make to process everything that's unfolded in the past seven days.

_I think Amanda Rollins put her, and you all up to this_

_There's reasons why she left Atlanta_

_She got around_

You close your eyes and sink further onto the couch. Amanda Rollins screwed up, yet again, and the way you figure, it's not like anyone should be surprised. You'd even lied to Benson again, one thing you swore you would _never_ do. Then again, it wasn't exactly a lie, but you certainly weren't forthcoming. _You never know who is capable of wha_t sounded a whole lot better than the truth back when you had an inkling of hope that your past might all stay under wraps.

Olivia Benson thinks she has you all figured out now. You're just two peas in a pod, and according to her, you've been pushing this down and trapped, or whatever. She thinks she understands the method behind your madness, and that one night can explain every terrible decision you've made since. You'd almost have rather taken the reaming you deserved in her office yesterday instead of a pity smile and a veiled _I understand_ and a referral to her freaking therapist.

And then there was Nick. And Fin. These boys would protect you with your life, and you knew that without a doubt, but you couldn't help but wonder how things would change from here. You'd noticed the subtle shift in their relationship with Olivia, and although no one would ever admit to it, they'd been a little more protective and a little more sympathetic. You didn't want that, not at all. You don't like feeling sorry for yourself, and you especially don't want others to show you pity. You're not weak like that, you're _fine._

Nick… He'd told you time and time again, he's here if you want to talk. To tell the truth, you believe him; you know he'd drop everything in a heartbeat for you, whether it's strictly platonic or not. But you know the implications of an evening rendezvous for two of you, and even though you know he wouldn't take advantage of your vulnerability, it's yourself that you don't trust. The thought of being touched makes you want to vomit.

_"You convinced me to testify… but I don't see you taking the stand." _

She'd called you out, and she was right. In any other context, you might have liked Reese a lot. She was determined, ambitious, full of spunk just like you with a little bit of a feisty edge. You wonder how things might have been different for you both if you'd been in the department at the same time, had each other to lean on as you navigated the boys club together.

Maybe it would have ended differently for both of you.

_"What Chief Patton did to me was a crime, and I realized if I didn't testify, it might happen to someone else, and I couldn't have that on my conscience."_

He did it to someone else. Charlie Patton used his power and position to hurt and then attempt to spook and silence someone else. You don't know why you'd ever expected differently, and you're not surprised at all, but you'd convinced yourself that your circumstances were different. That you'd walked into it consensually and you'd given him an opportunity he wouldn't have taken if you'd done the right thing and not played the sacrificial lamb and for once, let Kim take responsibility for her own mess. It was a crime of opportunity, and you'd walked right into it.

_"So they can know what he did to me? Know my humiliation, and call me a slut just like you."_

Your humiliation. Your total and complete humiliation. You were humiliated in Atlanta, and after a reprieve where you hadn't allowed it to show, it had followed you all the way to your new life and new start in the city that never sleeps.

You reach for your cell phone and scan your thumbprint to unlock it. The screen immediately flashes to the last thing you'd searched as you waited for the F train to bring you home that afternoon: hotels in Atlantic City. Your eyes linger on the page, and you let out a sigh of desperation.

It wouldn't be so bad, would it? One night. For so long, you'd been good. You'd followed every rule, worked the program, been a _good girl, _but that's sure a joke_._ You'd take cash, _only_ cash with you. You'd go out of the city, where no one knew you and no one could find you, and you'd maybe even self-impose a no drinking policy to keep your judgment as sharp as possible. People hit the casinos all the time… took a vacation, let loose and it was all harmless fun. That high you got when you took an impulsive risk would be powerful enough to temporarily drown out any distress you felt over Patton, and after this hellacious week, you deserved a vice. You'd earned it, right? You knew when to stop. It would allllll be okay.

No…. no, _no_, _NO_, Amanda.

You shove your feet against the coffee table so hard that it topples over on its side, spilling that stupid pointless bowl of fake fruit the lady at Pier 1 had convinced you to buy when you were redecorating and a month's worth of backlogged DD5's all over the floor.

Frannie jolts at the noise, lifting her head to look at you and letting out a whimper in the process. "Sorry, girl…" you mutter, and damn it, even your dog knows you're a head case. She also knows you need a little extra loving right now, and she's about the only person you'll accept the sympathy from. She trots over to you and lays her head on your lap, looking up at you with those irresistible eyes. You let out a sigh, scratching lightly behind her ears as she nuzzles your thigh.

_"Amanda… you know I don't take no for an answer." _

You were young, and naïve, and although you'd started with consent that you'd unsuccessfully retracted, the events of the past week had finally shone some light on the fact that none of that mattered.

You'd said it first to Barba of all people, but you'd never really given yourself a chance to accept the words that had shocked even yourself when they spilled out.

"He raped me, Frannie." You softly test out the words, and they feel foreign on your lips. It's the second time you've said them, ever. _He raped me. _"I was… raped. Deputy… Chief… Patton... raped… me" It's hard, and you can feel your voice shake and your resolve cracking with every sound, but you practice it over and over, taking meticulous time with each syllable. Although you're not sure if you'll ever speak the phrase to another human being again, if you've realized anything over the past week, it's that you owe this to yourself.

For five years, you'd blamed yourself, convinced yourself that it was _your_ fault and _you_ were responsible for everything that happened in Room 209 of that Motel 6. You weren't a victim of anything except your own poor judgment and pure stupidity. You'd walked right into it. You'd consented to a deal laced with impropriety, something you _knew _better than to be doing, but it was your _sister_. Hell, you'd even driven yourself to the run-down motel and laid right down on the mattress for him, offering what you had on a silver platter. But then, you said _no, _and you fought, and it doesn't matter that you'd consoled so many others that similar situations weren't their fault. _Those_ women hadn't snuck around and screwed their boss with no respect for justice and the law and their career. They weren't cops who should have known better than to teeter on the edge of corruption. No, you'd shouldered all the responsibility for something you would never even consider blaming another woman for.

You _were_ raped.

The tears begin to pool in your eyes, the ones you've fought back not just for a week, but for the five years you haven't allowed yourself to feel this compartment of your life. You pull your knees up to your chest and fall to the side, curling up in the fetal position. Then, you let loose. Your quiet sniffles turn into full blown sobs, and you let yourself go until there's nothing left to cry.

Again, the temptation and false assurance that a night of gambling is going to solve your problems begins to creep from your mind to your fingers. You pick up your phone again and stare at it, the internal battle waging strong.

Instead you make the first good decision of your day, of your life even. You scroll through your recent calls, take a deep breath, and tap the name you came here to find.

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><p><strong>I know, I'm mean and I left it super vague, but I want to know... who do you think she's going to call? I'll give you a hint... it might not be who you think ;) <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi again! Thanks for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites for this chapter. They make my day and are always great motivation to continue! Please keep them coming, I love to read your feedback and constructive criticism, as well as ideas and speculation you may have about what's going to happen next!**

**Was super bummed there was no Amanda in Agent Provacateur, but I'm looking forward to the next episode (even though it's Amanda-less again... but poor girl deserves a break for sure!) to see more of Nick's family story. It looks like a good one!**

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><p>The phone rings once, twice, and by the third time, you're second-guessing yourself.<p>

Panicking might be more like it, actually.

What do you want him to tell you? That you didn't blow this case? That even though you lied to him, it was all okay? Don't worry; he'll still treat you with the upmost professionalism and respect even after you poured out your most vulnerable, humiliating moments to him during the preparation of your futile testimony? That he was _sorry_?

Before you even have a chance to pull the phone away from your ear and end the call, that suave voice picks up on the other end of the line. "Barba." You hear him say, and your stomach drops.

You'd known he wouldn't try to make you talk about your mess of jumbled feelings like you suspected Fin would. He wouldn't tempt you to make a carnal decision you might later regret like you knew Nick was apt to do, whether intentionally or not. And there was no way you could face Olivia in the midst of processing through that ambiguous conversation in her office and all but sprinting out of her therapist's office the previous afternoon. She had to know by now that you didn't show. Doctor/patient confidentiality didn't apply if you weren't interested in being his newest head case, and you really weren't in the mood to defend that decision. And, there was that little nuance that Barba was the only person you'd actually disclosed your…. _rape_ to. You shudder a bit as those words cross your mind, and you remind yourself that you really, _really_ don't want to talk about this. With anyone.

"I'm sorry, I... dialed the wrong number." You manage to mumble, silently kicking yourself for even considering coming to the ADA for consolation after you're screwed up his entire case. You could be halfway to Atlantic City by now, and that's starting to seem like it would have been the better decision.

"No you didn't." He quips back. Of course, he has your number saved, and damn Caller ID never gave anyone any privacy anymore. You can just imagine him leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk, reveling in the fact that Amanda Rollins, _the victim_, the headache of the department, is crawling back to him for comfort when you should really be groveling at his feet for forgiveness. Still, the tone is different from his normal wisecracks. It's softer, a little more understanding, and a little more loaded.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to figure out how you're going to get yourself out of this one. Barba isn't your friend; he's never been. He's a shark who gets the job done, which givies you ample respect for him as a prosecutor, but maybe you haven't quite forgiven him for humiliating you in the courtroom when he exposed your private relationship with Nate last winter. You knew he had to do it, and it's not that you blamed him for using whatever ammunition he had at his disposal to get a conviction that, in hindsight, you realized Lena Olson deserved, but it didn't make it hurt your pride any less.

"It's over, Rollins." He says carefully, and you're immeasurably thankful, not only because he breaks the heavy silence, but he seems to understand. Normally, the _it's over_ would spark a flood of insecurity that once again, you're a bother and he's not-so-subtly telling you to drop it, but there's something in his voice that encourages you to hear him out. "He's out of law enforcement for good. No jail time, but the court of public opinion will crucify him regardless. When the press gets ahold of him, he may wish he was locked up and living off the dime of the New York taxpayers... And _someone_ might have called in an anonymous tip to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution to make _sure_ they don't miss a story about the return of their latest hometown celebrity."

You can just imagine the raised eyebrows and satisfied smirk on his face as continues. "Sonofabitch deserves a felony on his record and a cell at Rikers. My hands were tied, Rollins. The DA wanted a settlement, said our case was too weak to risk the bad press we would have gotten from a loss. I, however, wasn't planning to lose."

You offer a shrug, and a nod, then a quiet affirmation once you realize that your nonverbal doesn't translate through the phone lines. He never said it, but you know why the case was weak, and it was all your fault. _You_ hadn't reported in Atlanta. _You_ hadn't had a rape kit done. _You'd_ kept your mouth shut for all these years, even after you had moved to New York and the threat of retaliation was no longer. _You'd_ gone to the hospital and taken Reese's statement, then continued on the case instead of recusing yourself immediately once you realized your conflict of interest. _You'd_ skirted the truth in Barba's office, releasing only the details that profiled you in total and complete control of the situation, because for some reason, that didn't take as much of your dignity. _You'd_ sat in on testimony after testimony, but refused to take the stand yourself until it was too late.

After years of furiously repressing that night, the worst night of your life, you were starting to wrap your mind around the realization that what had happened to you _was_ rape. But what you couldn't shake was the overwhelming self-blame and the notion that that the responsibility still fell on your shoulders - for your own assault and for Reese's.

He continues to talk legal jargon and interdepartmental harassment and cover-ups, all things you know much more about than you ever wished to. You squeeze your eyes shut as you try to hold your tears at bay.

"Amanda?" He clears his throat, and you realize he's repeating himself in an attempt to get your attention. And since when has he ever called you by your first name?

"I'm sorry…" You start quietly. "If I would have told you everything, given you time for a Molineux hearing before the trial started, maybe the judge would have allowed it. Maybe—" You're surprised at the timbre of your own voice and how uncharacteristically small it sounds. You're always calm, cool and composed, even when you aren't. This isn't like you.

He cuts you off quickly. "Detective Taymor directed her frustration at you on the stand, but this isn't on you, Rollins. Off the record, you and I both know that even if you had reported then, there's no guarantee that anything would've turned out differently. The only reason this went anywhere is because it happened in our jurisdiction… Atlanta would have made it disappear."

You bite your lip, because you know arguing is futile, _especially_ with a lawyer of Rafael Barba's caliber. Deep down, you know he is right, however difficult it may be to believe. As soon as you'd told Barba what _really_ happened, the part that had been out of your control, it's like the switch had flipped. Instead of laying into you for lying at the start like you more than deserved, he'd listened to your story with a surprising level of compassion. He cared about more than just walking away with a victory, and you'd seen it written all over his face. Although you appreciated his empathy at the time, it scared you when you considered how this would affect your future interaction.

Everything about this scared you, not just when it came to Barba's ability to treat you as a competent detective in future encounters. Your partnership with Fin, and how it may take time to rebuilt trust and confidence in each other. Your relationship with Nick, and wherever the hell that stood lately, but you didn't want him to see you as just another damsel in distress that needed his white-knight rescue. The Great Olivia Benson, thinking she could trace every bad decision you'd ever made back to one horrific night, and giving you some kind of special treatment now that she figures you're one in the same and Charles Patton is your William Lewis.

You're **not**.

"How much does Benson know?" You already realize the answer, but you still have to ask in the hopes of maybe, just _maybe_, some of your privacy is preserved.

Barba sighs. "Because you didn't testify, the summary text of your testimony is sealed. And, as far as I'm concerned, it's privileged—" You breathe a sigh of relief, but it's short lived. "—But Liv is smart. She knows. Patton all but confessed to treating you and Detective Taymor the same before his little heart attack charade, and..."

You give him a little grunt of affirmation because you're not so sure you can handle much more of this. Patton looked straight at you during sentencing. He had every opportunity to allocute to his actions with no risk of punishment. Your heart ripped in two all over again when you realized no, you _weren't_ going to hear him own up to anything more than the bare minimum.

You never would.

"I need to, um, go let Frannie out. My dog." You choke out, adding the modifier once your realize that Barba may be the only person in the world who _hasn't _heard you talk about your four legged baby in the same way most of your coworkers brag about their children. Frannie looks up from where she's been sleeping on the floor at the mention of her name. You've sure been using her as an excuse for a lot lately, but hey, nobody ever questions a girl's love for her dog, that's for sure

"You can call me. Anytime. It doesn't have to be an accident." He reassures you

"Yeah I'm… going to take some time off. Maybe, uh, get a referral for a therapist. Liv suggested it." You tell him, your voice cracking in the process. You weren't sure if it was true, but it sure sounded good to anyone who was already concerned that you were going to fall off the wagon, and you were sure that doing anything the Golden Girl Olivia recommended would earn you some brownie points with Barba.

"Take care of yourself, Rollins." He says softly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi again! I told myself I was going to get out a quick Padre Sandunguero one shot, but I think I will end up making it Chapter 5 of this story... if I make it that far, and you all want it :)**

**Hope you all enjoy, have a fantastic weekend, and don't forget to leave a quick review and tell me what you think! **

**_Also - I'm on Twitter now, so come and find me! cheertennis12 _**

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><p><em>Peter Lindstrom, MD<br>__26 West 82__nd__ Street_

You stare down at the business card in your hand, slightly crumpled from all of the times it's found its way in and out of your pocket over the last five days. You run your fingers over the slightly raised print and let out a deep sigh.

You'd made it through an entire weekend of nightmares and sleepless nights and jumping every time you heard footsteps in the hallway before you finally accepted that something had to give. You couldn't keep living like this; you could barely function. At this point, you're willing to try anything short of admitting to Olivia's face that maybe she was right, maybe you didn't have any other choice but to take her advice and '_talk to somebody_.'

So, first thing Monday morning, with an eye roll and a dramatic sigh of self-loathing and disbelief, you called and talked to this famed Dr. Lindstrom, offered an apology and a BS excuse for your no-show last week, and rescheduled for a coincidental open spot that afternoon. And now, here you sit in the same waiting room you ran away from last Wednesday, clutching the throw pillow tightly against your lap and letting your mind run away with the thoughts of how excruciating this is going to be. You wait, and you wait, and you're about ten seconds away from bolting yet again when you hear footsteps approaching and the door creak open, and now it's too late. You're trapped.

A woman about your age emerges, her eyes glossy and her cheeks stained with tears, but she offers you a nod and sympathetic smile as she walks out. She looks familiar, and you wonder why she's here, what her story is. Maybe she's another victim whose case file has passed over your desk. You flash a tight smile back as you rise to your feet and tentatively make your way into the unknown of the other room.

"Hello?" You call from the doorway, rapping your fingers lightly against the wooden frame as you wait for approval to enter.

"You must be Amanda…" Dr. Lindstrom turns around and walks over to you, holding out a hand for you to shake. "Come in." He gestures into the room, instructing you to sit wherever you feel comfortable.

Taking your seat in a plush green chair, you look around and carefully study your surroundings. You half expect to see a photo of Benson hanging on his wall, with some shiny plaque describing her as his greatest success story. You can just imagine her sprawled out in this chair, pouring out her deep dark secrets with tears streaming down her face as he scribbles furiously onto his notepad. If this is her cup of tea, then fine, but that'll _never_ be you. You clasp your hands in your lap and lean forward on your elbows, just ready to get this over with so he can go back and tell Olivia whatever he needed to, that you came and played nice and satisfied the requirements for you to come back to work.

You turn your attention to him now, sizing the doctor up from head to toe as he settles into the chair beside you. You're not quite sure what you pictured Olivia's therapist to look like, but he sure wasn't it. In fact, the way he stares at you with that creepy smile is kind of freaking you out, and you squirm a bit in your seat before he takes the cue and initiates the icebreakers.

You start with the basics. _Hi, I'm Amanda Rollins, I'm from Georgia, I'm an NYPD Detective and a screw up and blah, blah, blah my life is falling apart but that doesn't mean I want to talk about it. _He offers a swift introduction of himself, casually pointing out his credentials as if he thinks you might actually come back to see him again after today's sixty minutes in hell are over. You want some leverage to work your way back into Olivia's good graces, and maybe, _maybe_ a referral to someone a little less biased and a _little_ more approachable if you so choose to continue this route. That's it. You're fine.

"Tell me why you chose to come here today, Amanda." Lindstrom cuts the small talk and begins to dig into the heart of the matter, immediately heightening your defenses.

You stop yourself just short of rolling your eyes, muttering something under your breath about it not really being a choice. Apparently, your words don't come out quite as softly as you would have liked, and you look up to find him staring at you with raised eyebrows.

Ugh.

You sigh. "Oliv—… Sergeant Benson wanted me to see you. We just finished a case, brought up some… personal history. She thinks I… need to talk to someone about it." You shrug like it's no big deal to you. It's okay to regurgitate that _she _thinks you need a shrink, but admitting that _you_ might be on board with the necessity of the idea is a little more daunting and a little more of a blow to your already damaged pride.

"Do _you_ think you need to be here?" He calmly answers back, and his relative nonchalance is already getting on your nerves.

"I think… everybody else think I need to be here." You say with a sarcastic edge, not even attempting to mask your annoyance.

"So your friends are concerned about you."

"I guess…" You shake your head.

Lindstrom slowly leans back in his chair and taps his pen against his teeth. "Amanda, _you_ are the one who chose to come here today." He finally speaks, his voice firm but still with an overarching calmness. "Therapy will be of no benefit to you unless you are willing to invest your time and energy into exploring whatever issues you would like to work through. I don't want to waste your time or mine if you have no intentions of putting forth the effort to make progress."

Although still frustrated, the doctor's unexpected assertiveness earns him a little more respect in your eyes. You stare straight ahead, lips pressed tightly together as you process through his words as quickly as your mind will allow. You've tried the therapy thing before, one brief time after you shot your sister's boyfriend. You'd gone for your mandatory evaluation, shrugged it off as if it was no big deal, only to have it all hit the fan and you followed the exact instructions you had been given: _Come back if you have any anxiety or trouble sleeping._

You found out that she didn't really mean that.

But now, you consider taking the chance again, because your rock bottom had reached a level even lower than you thought imaginable. You thought you'd hit it when you left Atlanta, or when your sister framed you for murder, or certainly after your gambling fiasco last spring. But each time, you pull it together and rebound, only to later plummet even deeper than before. You're humiliated… numb… broken… and so, so tired of not being able to break the cycle and break free of your own demons. You need _help_.

"Okay." You say with one emphatic nod. "I'm ready."

Lindstrom picks his pen up, and poises it above his notepad. With one more redirect, you draw yourself together, and you start to tell your story.

…

Forty-seven minutes later, he looks at his watch and announces that your time is up. He hands you a box of tissues and you blow your nose as he shuffles the paperwork in his lap. He gives you the rundown of the procedure for a referral, but by this point, you're not paying attention. As soon as you slow down enough to process what's happened over the last hour, how you've sat in this chair and poured out your heart and soul and secrets to not just a complete stranger, but a stranger who's probably been told all kinds of terrible things about you over the last year and a half that he's been meeting with Olivia, you begin to panic. You know all of the rules about privileged conversation and doctor/patient confidentiality, but you can't help but wonder what's going through his mind right now, what he's _really_ thinking about you and your mess of a life.

You manage to keep it together as Lindstrom gives you final instructions and shakes your hand, wishing you luck and thanking you for coming.

You can't get out of there fast enough.

You bolt out the door and charge down the steps, nearly trampling another woman as your rush past. You grab the handrail with one arm to regain balance, and with the other, you catch the other patron in a courteous attempt to keep her from toppling over as well.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Your apology comes out in a frantic sob as your whirl around.

She steadies herself before turning around and looking back at you, and when you catch a glimpse of her face, you freeze.

_"__Amanda?"_

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><p><strong>Im sure it's pretty obvious buuuut... Who does Amanda just so happen to run in to after her appointment?<strong>

***alternate ending for lucyspencer and sassylibrarian1 - Amanda jumps out of her chair and plants a big smooch right on Lindstrom at some point in this story #Rollstrom 3 **


	4. Chapter 4

**Woohoo, finally Chapter 4! Thanks to the amazing support for this story so far, and I hope you like this one. I will say, it went in a totally different direction than I'd originally intended, but that's what happens when a story has a life if its own. **

**Leave a review here or find me on twitter at /cheertennis12! **

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><p><em>You bolt out the door and charge down the steps, nearly trampling another woman as your rush past. You grab the handrail with one arm to regain balance, and with the other, you catch the other patron in a courteous attempt to keep her from toppling over as well.<em>

_"__I'm sorry, ma'am," Your apology comes out in a frantic sob as your whirl around. _

_She steadies herself before turning around and looking back at you, and when you catch a glimpse of her face, you freeze._

_"__Amanda?" _

Your eyes widen and your body stiffens as you take a step back. _No_. She can't be here, she doesn't get to do this to you. She doesn't get to interject herself into this facet of your life, just like she's done with your gambling, and with Lena Olson, and even with your sister. Your desperate attempt to process through this is a private matter, and she has no right to just show up here and think that she can corner you into pouring out your heart and soul to her now that she knows there's something inside of you that needs fixing. She's just as bad as Nick in that regard.

God. Lindstrom probably called her, didn't he.

"Amanda… Amanda, honey, breathe." She says in that annoyingly airy voice, the one that apparently works wonders with victims, but always rubs you the wrong way when you're at the receiving end. Because _you_ are not one of _them_.

You quickly work to regain control of your emotions. "Sergeant, good to see you." You say with a tilt of your head, your voice dripping with cynical sweetness and some good ol' Southern passive aggression. You nod one more quick time in her direction and take off deliberately, as fast as your feet will take you without looking like you're intentionally running. Much to your dismay, she sees right through your half-baked _I'm okay _façade.

"Rollins!" She calls after you, and you stop in your tracks, because you know there's no way to pretend you didn't hear her from ten feet away. You throw your head back and let out an exasperated sigh as you brace yourself for the footsteps approaching from behind. She settles into position, behind you and a bit to the side, and you can at least appreciate that she's giving you your much-needed space.

"I know how hard this is—"

"I came, okay?" You whirl around and snap, cutting her off before she has a chance to go any further with her unsolicited advice. It's only a fraction of the frustration you wish you could let out, but it's about the only thing that you think you can get away with. _What more do you want from me, Benson?_

She gives you a tight smile, coupled with a nod, but at least it shuts her up for the time being. You ponder for a minute, before you chime back in, a little less aggressive this time.

"Look, I… appreciate what you're trying to do…" and you're not sure you actually do, but at least it sounds good, in the interest of preserving any relationship you may have with your overbearing boss, however dysfunctional it may be. "—but really. I'm okay. You can go home, you don't need to worry about me." You shoot her the biggest smile you muster, the kind that shows too many teeth and doesn't quite reach your eyes, but you're still moderately confident in your performance.

She presses her lips together and looks to the side, and for a split second, you think you see a look of embarrassment cross her face. You shouldn't take satisfaction in it, but you do, because in some terrible way, it levels the playing field. You're no longer the longer the only one feeling uncomfortable here, and there's a certain amount of relief that carries.

"I have… an appointment." She waves her hand absently towards the row of buildings behind her, where Lindstrom's office is nestled.

"Oh…" You say, and now _you're_ the one who's embarrassed all over again, because here you are, all self-absorbed and thinking she was here just to badger you. "I didn't realize you still—…"

Your words drop off, because you realize, there's no good way to end that phrase. _I didn't realize you still had to go to therapy, almost two years later? You were _that_ screwed up?_ You squirm a bit, seriously wishing to be _anywhere_ but here right now. Atlantic City sounds pretty good at the moment if you're being honest.

"Not very often anymore. But sometimes, when there's a case that is… difficult, and.. personal… I find it's best for me to be proactive." She says carefully.

Your mind flips through a catalog of your recent cases. If you were telling the truth, you were shocked that Olivia had come back to SVU at all after her attack. Nick… Fin… they all thought the same thing, but nobody ever dared to speak those words for fear of them becoming a reality. It was difficult even for you, continuing to work Special Victims after your own… assault; You saw yourself in every story, and that was nothing compared to the hell that you knew your sergeant had endured. You narrow your eyes, trying to pick out some specific case that could have had personal implications for Olivia above the rest.

Then it hits you.

_You. _

You draw in a sharp breath, cheeks flushing a crimson shade of red as you stare at the cracks in the sidewalk. Driving your boss back to counseling is yet another accomplishment you can add to your already stellar resume of screw-ups. You've never felt smaller than you do right here, right now.

"Amanda?" Her voice again rouses you from your thoughts, and you look up, your arms hugged tightly against your middle. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

You shake your head. "I don't want to make you late..." You squirm, praying that she will get the hint that you _don't_ want to talk, and you _don't_ want to be bothered, and you _just_ want to be left alone. It doesn't even matter that it's her; you've been dodging Nick and Fin's calls too without prejudice.

"You won't." She says pointedly, shutting down your plan of simple escape yet again. Stealing a quick glance at her watch, she reassures you further. "I like to come early and sit for awhile. It helps to clear my head. I have time." She shrugs, shooting you what looks like a genuine smile this time.

You sigh, mulling over your options. And if it weren't for that leverage she had as your superior officer, you wouldn't even be giving her offer this much consideration. But she _is_ your boss. She's always had this power over you, this unfailing blurry line between hating her holier-than-though attitude and desperately wanting her approval.

But there's one realization you're still trying to settle — you have to take care of _you_. Your whole life, it's always been about supporting others. Your sister, your mother, the array of victims you work with. You've taken their burdens and buried them deep inside with your own, then bent over backwards and skimped on self-care, usually allowing your personal life to spiral out of control because you didn't take time to properly process your own maelstrom.

Olivia had been right when it came to the overarching truth – you had a chance here. But it didn't have to be her way, and that was nothing to apologize for.

"Liv…" You say firmly, undaunted by the use of her first name, although you can't remember the last time you addressed her this way. Scrubbing your hands across your face, you take a deep breath. "I just… need some space, okay? You may not trust me, and my life might not look how you want it to look, but can you at least trust that I know how I need to work through this? If therapy works for you, then that's great, but I'm not _you_, Olivia." You say, a hint of pleading desperation in your voice, begging her to hear you out and to understand.

You study her expression carefully, looking for any hint that she's about to start into yet another speech about her lack of confidence in you and how she would transfer you if she weren't so short. Her face is blank, unreadable, and you swallow every ounce of fear rising in your throat to squeak out your final words before you lose the confidence to stand up to your sergeant. "Let me find what works for me. And if I need anything, I promise, I'll call you, or… or Fin, or Nick."

_Fin. Nick_. Your heart clenches a bit at the mention of your two best friends. These boys would protect you with their lives, and you've spent the last week dodging any attempt they've made to support you because you can't bear to own up to your humiliation and face them.

_One day. _

But that day isn't today.

"Do what you need to do, Rollins." She smiles back at you, and you're skeptical until you realize she's serious. She's _listening_ to you, and that elicits a half-hearted smile in return.

She jumps back into business, telling you to take as much time off as you need, and to call her when you are ready to come back to negotiate the conditions of your return. But you're not paying attention, because your focus is still on your escape. She finally says her goodbyes, and much to your relief, she doesn't try to hug you or anything of the sorts.

As soon as she's out of sight, you let out a breath you hadn't felt yourself holding. Taking the paper Dr. Lindstrom gave you out of your pocket, you run your fingers over the name and number written on it. A referral.

Maybe you'd take it, maybe you wouldn't, but knowing the ball had now been dropped in your court by the one person whose pressure intimidated you more than anything was a huge burden lifted. You said no more, and she stopped, and even though the context was a world of difference, every time the control you'd lost was given back to you, you felt like you had a little piece of yourself to put back together.

And as you turn and walk away, you finally have hope that there's a light at the end of the tunnel.


End file.
